


The Five Things You Know, and the One You Don't

by colavaria



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Card Games, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Love, Secret Crush, Shirtless Bucky Barnes, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Water Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:04:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colavaria/pseuds/colavaria
Summary: the italicized parts come from < a href=”http://ughsomeness.tumblr.com/post/155754795881/five-things-you-know-and-the-one-thing-you” > this tumblr post < /a >





	The Five Things You Know, and the One You Don't

**Author's Note:**

> the italicized parts come from < a href=”http://ughsomeness.tumblr.com/post/155754795881/five-things-you-know-and-the-one-thing-you” > this tumblr post < /a >

“Dammit!”

You lost your second out of four lives in this Nerf war, thanks to someone—someone most likely named Steve.  He’s a sneaky one. It’s pouring outside and nobody was in the mood to do anything productive, so naturally the first suggestion had been a Nerf war.

“Y/N, you will be avenged!”

Pietro vaults over the couch, very action movie-esque, which would have been impressive if he hadn’t been shot right after.

“Oh. Sorry, I’m out,” he sighs.  

“It’s okay, I appreciate the backup,” you say, sending your teammate a smile. By your count, it was only Bucky and you left on your team, versus Steve, Sam and Wanda on the other.  You weren’t sure how many lives each of them had, but you all promised to be honest.

“Y/N,” Bucky hisses. He waves his Nerf gun in a complicated circle.

“What?”

“Shh!”

If there was a way to see your face, it would read ‘???’.  A floorboard creaks behind you, and Bucky grabs your wrist and covers you until you’re safely behind the bar. A spark runs down your forearm but you attribute it to your socks shuffling on the carpet. 

He turns to you. “Didn’t I tell you the code?”

“No, it looked like random flailing—“ You raise your gun over the bar and shoot Wanda.  

She slouches. “How’d you know?”

You point behind Bucky. “The floating red stuff around the bullet about to hit him gave you away. How many more lives?”

“None.” She lowers her voice. “Sam’s got one more, but Steve’s got all four. Hurry, this game’s gone on long enough.”

Bucky mumbles ‘Steve’ under his breath and rises to go hunt for his best friend. It’s a good match, Bucky has all his lives too. Sam is yours. You tiptoe around the floor searching for any place that might house Sam.

“Oh, Bird Man,” you coo, knowing the nickname riles him up, “come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Just as you suspected: a poof from a gun misses your elbow. Bending down to pick up the foam bullet, you smile. Based on the trajectory, Sam was hiding behind the bookshelf.  Quietly, you sneak up on him and bombard him with foam before he can retaliate. Good ol’ physics, who knew it actually comes in handy?

You feel the spark again the next morning while getting your tea, but this time you’re nowhere near a carpet.

“There’s my partner in crime!” Bucky announces when he sees you, “Have I told you about her?”

“Multiple times,” Sam says, clearly miffed, he’s swirling his tea bag more than usual.

“I’ll tell you again.  She kicked ass.”

“Is this tea bitter, Sam?” You took a sip. “No. It must be you.”

Bucky throws an arm around your shoulders. His touch burns where your tank top can’t cover, and you have to concentrate on breathing properly. It’s like you had just come back from a run, your breath is completely knocked out of your lungs. Bucky’s holding onto you so his legs don’t give out from under him from the speechless look on Sam’s face; he’s laughing and declaring that you made his day.

> _First; he touches you and you light on fire. Your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin.  The burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs.  It’s so hard to breathe. You’re suffocating daily._

“What’s up with you?” Nat asks, “I was talking to you and you zoned out.”

“She’s drooling over Barnes,” Wanda replies, nudging you lightheartedly. You confessed to your crush on Bucky at the weekly girls lunch. Wanda wasn’t surprised.

“Yes, Bucky is over there, and yes, I happen to be staring in that direction, but I wouldn’t call it drooling.”

“You’re so smitten! Y/N, I can see it even without my powers.”

 

Bucky’s on the patio, settling in a chair to play cards with Steve and Pietro.  You  _were_  staring at him, more specifically at his chest, since he had just emerged from the pool. Each droplet of water was having the time of its life trying to find its way through the maze of muscle definition, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away.  You’re starting to get hot and bothered imagining your fingers as the droplets.  

“Hey,” Nat murmurs.  

She jerks her chin at the guys. Bucky is waving at you to come over and greets you warmly when the three of you pull up seats at the table and Pietro deals you into a game of blackjack. You’re sitting two seats away from Bucky; here he’s barely a head tilt from being in your immediate vision, and you have a full view of the six—no, eight pack. Yikes.

You don’t want to get caught staring, but you can’t  _not_  stare.  Cruelly, the universe dips the sun lower in the sky, and its rays spill on Bucky like a goddamn spotlight.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you swear under your breath.

“Bad cards, Y/N?” Nat asks, and you jump on her excuse, nodding. You notice her subtly pointing down to her abdomen, then up at her face.  It’s a silent way of saying, ‘his eyes are up there.’

Bucky stretches to grab his towel, and you can feel yourself blushing when his muscles twist and contract. At the same time, Pietro makes a joke and Bucky’s smiling in that cute way where his nose scrunches. It’s too much too much–

You put on your sunglasses.

> _Second; it hurts to watch him. He shines. He’s brighter than the sun, he’s too beautiful for your eyes.  It’s hard to look at him.  It’s even harder to look away from him.  You’re going blind._

Two days later, you’re sitting on a bar stool tugging at the hem of your dress.  Nat swears it makes your legs look a mile long when you walk, but you’re tired of standing and are in dire need of a drink. Preferably something strong.  

“Tony, is your floor strong enough to handle this many people? I’m genuinely concerned,” you ask when Tony whizzes by, his arm around Happy Hogan, who is looking a little too happy.  You have to duck when he tries to hug you, claiming you’re too pretty to be sitting on the sidelines.

“Yeah, I designed it, it’ll even withstand Banner if someone pokes him. Stark guarantee.”

“Come dance with me!”

“I’m okay here, Hogan, but next party, alright?”

Tony chuckles and guides his tipsy friend over to a couch. Once he’s sure Hogan has a water bottle to sober up with, Tony hops on stage. “Introducing our entertainment for this evening!”

“Here’s your vodka cranberry.” The bartender hands you a glass as a gorgeous woman walks up to the microphone.

You thank him and take a few sips listening to the woman singing a slow ballad. You scan the crowd, looking to see if Hogan likes the music, but then you see him. It’s common knowledge that if you are looking at someone you can hear their voice better, though with you it’s like your ears are always plugged in to the Bucky Barnes Radio Show.

“Stevie, when do these things end?”

“Late, Buck. Around two.”

“In the morning?!”

You want to unplug the microphone so you can hear Bucky better, his baritone voice is heaven to your ears.  As the singer hits an impossibly high note, you wonder why people are clapping, impressed. Why is anyone listening to this, this  _noise_  when he’s speaking?

Struck with a sudden idea, you down the last of your drink and weave your way around the mesmerized guests. You squeeze past two middle-aged men—who, if you’re not mistaken, invented Google; they’re probably smart as hell, but they seem to  _like_  the sound of nails on a chalkboard, so you can’t give them too much credit—and find yourself behind the two supersoldiers. You poke the brunet’s bicep.

His bored face lights up at the sight of you.

“Y/N!”

“Hey, Bucky? Want to go play Monopoly?”

His reply was instantaneous. “Yes. Absolutely. I’d love to play Monopoly with you. Bye Steve.”

“Bucky no—“

Bucky takes your hand and you’re around the corner before Steve can finish.  

“You’re the best, Y/N,” he says, loosening his tie, and the butterflies in your stomach flap their wings to the rhythm of his words. “I was dying in there.”

“I know the feeling.”

An hour later, you’re losing. Badly. Despite being from the 40s, Bucky is annoyingly good at real estate.  You count forward three spots and land on Boardwalk, one of his properties. Slowly, hoping he’s not paying attention, you move your piece four spots, bypassing the danger of triple hotels.

“No, no, that’s four, not three!”

“Did I roll a three?”

“You did.”

You cover the die nonchalantly.  “No, I didn’t.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and suddenly it’s a war, he’s trying to pull your hand up, and you’re trying to keep it down.  To nobody’s surprise, he wins, and the number three is revealed.

“Mwahaha,” he grabs at the last of your pitiful money pile, throwing the coloured bills up in the air. “You’re bankrupt!”

The floor-to-ceiling windows around you show the stars, twinkling magnificently bright in the clear night sky. But Bucky’s singing  _We Are The Champions_  and he’s messing up the lyrics and he’s completely off-key and you’re positive it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever witnessed.

> _Third; your ears are tuned to his voice. You could pick him out in a sea of thousands. His voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. His voice makes everything else ugly._

Bucky’s eyes should be a crayon colour, you decide.  

He has a habit. Whenever anyone says something ridiculous, Bucky looks to you like you’re the camera in The Office. And when they say a ridiculous paragraph, he widens his eyes in disbelief, pursing his lips to avoid cracking a smile. This happens a lot when Steve’s feeling particularly adventurous. It’s in these moments where time seems to slow, and you wish it would stop completely so you can study his eyes longer. Bucky has a myriad of blue that swirls to create a whirlpool of taunting winks and irritated smirks.  The wrinkled smile lines and long, dark eyelashes accentuate it perfectly.

After all, if you email Crayola, you better have a description.

Your favourite shade is when he scrunches them up from laughing.  They’re so blue they literally glow, as if they repel light instead of absorbing it.  You’re rooted to your spot when this happens.  Like you’re on a ship, and those eyes, blue like an ocean sea, are begging you to set sail with them, to cast your doubts away and leave the mainland behind.  

You’re writing this fantasy into your journal when you realize how deep you are: you’re not on the ship anymore.  

> _Fourth; the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in.  He is turning you into a cliched love-wrecked being. You’re drowning, always sinking. Down, down, down._

Screaming wakes you from sleep.  Throwing off your covers, you don’t have to follow the heartbreaking sounds to know they are coming from Bucky’s room.  When you knock, you find that the door opens at your touch.

“Bucky?”

Bucky is thrashing in his bed, the covers pushed down at his feet, the sheets underneath him dark.  Your eyes rake over his anguished face; he’s sweating, and fighting some sort of invisible monster. Recently you’ve been helping him with his nightmares and you can tell, it’s a bad one tonight.  

You climb onto the mattress and nudge him gently. “Bucky, wake up.”  Nothing happens, so you shake him harder then duck as his metal fist flies at your head. It hits the wall with a sickening crunch, and this is what wakes Bucky up.  He sits up, gasping.

“Y/N? Oh my god.” He reaches out like he wants to lift you up from your flattened position, but before he does, he sees the dent in the wall and recoils.  The anguish turns to horror, and you can’t tell which one is worse.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

You take his hands from behind his back and intertwine your fingers. You push his chin up so he meets your eyes.

“I’m okay, don’t worry.”

“I nearly hurt you.”

“The key word here is nearly,” you soothe, “Let’s get you into new clothes.”

You slip over to his wardrobe and open his drawers to find another shirt.  When you turn around, Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands.

He’s in pain, and you feel it too.  You are also angry, angry at the world, because they victimized him; angry at Hydra, because they caused Bucky to feel this way. You want to track down each and every person who hurt him and rip them apart in increasingly creative ways, but you settle for collecting Bucky in your arms and wiping away his tears.  

During your nights with him he’s confided in you the process of getting over his guilt and the fears that still haunt him.  It didn’t happen right away, oh no, it took time to show him you would stay no matter what.  Knowing Bucky, truly, bad and good, past and present, it could never push you away. Nothing could. You’re here for the long haul.

You’re lying on your back when he calms enough to fall asleep.  Bucky’s torso is on top of yours, hugging you, and his face is angled so you can feel his breaths on your skin; you’re satisfied when you confirm they’re even. Playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, you glare at the ceiling like it’s going to come attack Bucky too.

“No more. Don’t try anything.  Or else you have me to deal with,” you growl to the world.

You’ll fiercely protect this man with everything you have, with every word, every muscle, every breath. Adjusting your hold on his back, you match your exhales to Bucky’s and drift off, mentally making a note to take him to the zoo soon.  He loves feeding the penguins.

> _Fifth; you know him. You love him. Through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you’d find him. You’d never leave. You love him. Till death do you part._

Bucky wakes to a rhythmic beating sound.  

Opening his eyes, he sees he’s lying on you, over your heart, and the corners of his mouth turn upwards. Bucky recalls last night. Not the nightmare, no, because you chased it away—he remembers you.  You being here for him, you saying the words of affirmation he so badly needed to hear to calm down, they further solidified the place he had carved for you to be forever in his life. He was so nervous and scared that you’d leave once you saw what he was capable of, but you stayed, and here you are.

On an impulse, he kisses your temple and you smile in your sleep. You’re so beautiful, he thinks.

Bucky watches your eyes move under their lids, and he wonders of what you’re dreaming. Hopefully it’s something good. You deserve it; you deserve the world, in his mind.

The sun is not yet up, so he relaxes again. He’s so comfortable and you’re so lovely, Bucky never wants to move. Your heart, with every beat, pumps into him more peace, and more clarity.

Bucky’s sure of one thing. It’s the one thing you don’t know.

> _Sixth; he loves you, too._


End file.
